


Festival of Prompts- Tumblr Drabbles

by TeyrianTimelord



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Casual Sex, Character death in chapter 4, Clintasha fluff, Cossack Bucky, Drabbles, Evil Molly, F/M, Fear of flying explained, Fluff, Here there be jousting, High School AU, Imperial Guard Natasha, Imperial Russia AU, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Q does fieldwork, Random & Short, Sherlolly - Freeform, Snowball Fight, Uni AU, Vegas Wedding, february revolution au, mary morstan and john watson play matchmaker, molly hooper/Q - Freeform, puppy adoption, thank you tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-03-09 11:47:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 20,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3248543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeyrianTimelord/pseuds/TeyrianTimelord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which I took prompts through my askbox and these are the results.<br/>"00Q trying to tell each other their feelings please"<br/>"Renaissance Sherlolly ;) Sherlock must joust for Molly's honor."<br/>"Molly and Sherlock go to a renaissance festival"<br/>"Molly as a Bond co-villain with Jim Moriarty?"<br/>"If you have time could you write that headcanon about CLINTASHA waking up in Vegas married and wearing wedding veils?"<br/>"Sherlock and Molly adopt a puppy"<br/>"Uni AU where Natasha and Bond have a thing and Hawkeye doesn't like it. Thx!"<br/>"00Q University AU please?:)"<br/>" I feel like a romance between young-Cossack-Bucky and guardian-of-the-czarina-Natasha would be a neat fic."<br/>"Sifki prompt: Loki and Sif speech club AU."<br/>"Unilock: John and Leatrade try to help Sherlock gather the courage to ask Molly out"<br/>"Q must tell Bond that the next mission is to Kill M, his mentor/mother figure.... Does Bond take the shot? Or does Q do it first? So Bond does not have to?"<br/>"Hi! Sifki prompt: In love with my costar AU."<br/>"Can you do one where Q can't swim and Bond drags him on a mission and he almost drowns?"<br/>"If your still taking Buckynat prompts how about a baby AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Find the Words

Two weeks had gone by but Q still refused to speak to Bond. Every time he tried to get a word in, the Quartermaster would pretend to be on the phone or up to his specs in “urgent business” or offer some other halfhearted pedestrian falsehood. James knew that Q could be a very good liar, but these diversions were so petty it was obvious for everyone in MI6 to see that the young man was deliberately evading 007, and not being subtle about it either. The whole of Q Branch and half the Double 0’s were painfully aware that Bond had done something to piss him off more than usual. However, no one, not even James, really knew why. For a while, Bond had been content to go along with the antics, but after being handed off to R for his next two assignments, he decided things were getting out of hand. 

James didn’t make a habit of visiting Q Branch unless specifically requested. The amount of technology taking over the traditional jobs of good agents was borderline insulting. For every one computer specialist MI6 hired, two field operatives became obsolete. Even though he knew it was more the British government’s fault than that of the minions, he couldn’t help feeling the twinge of animosity. Every so often it tended to show and as such most of the lower ranking underlings were too intimidated to look him in the eye, so of course his appearances were “bad for efficiency” as M had delicately put it. On this occasion, though, he could not have cared less about Mallory and his restrictions. Nor did he care about the frazzled looking R who rushed him the moment he exited the elevator. 

“007, Q is not taking any visitors today. He has-“

“He has you covering for him now?” James interrupted with a snap that made her jump.

She tried stuttering out a response but he was half way to Q’s office before she could string together a coherent sentence. Predictable. The woman was a genius when it came to computers but shriveled under the slightest social interaction. Thankfully she was running for cover or reinforcements, giving him enough time to get through Q’s office door uninhibited. He didn’t bother to knock and the Quartermaster didn’t bother to look anything but annoyed.

“Get out. I’m working,” he demanded bluntly without looking up from his laptop screen. 

James guiltlessly slammed the door. While Q was distracted by the noise, Bond used the opportunity to snatch the computer away and throw it to the chair on the other side of his desk. Even behind the thick lenses of his specs, Q’s eyes suddenly lit up with a furious spark that he hadn’t seen since M tried relocating R to a separate branch. 

“No, you’re acting like a child. Grow up and tell me what’s making you such a prick,” James growled, leaning over the desk while the younger man stayed seated, seething in anger under the harsh gaze. 

“For God’s sake, 007, it’s you!” he spat back and pushed himself forward so he was glaring right into his eyes. “You’re arrogant and you let that get in the way of your judgment. You’re careless and reckless and throw your life around like it has no purpose but to be sacrificed for Queen and country. On your last mission you came back riddled with bullet holes and nearly dead because you refused to listen to my instructions. Did you ever once, ONCE, consider what it feels like when you force me into uselessness?! If you die out there because I am unable to save you, how do you expect me to live with myself? How do you expect me to live without you, James?! How-“

He cut himself off short, face bright red and chest heaving under the combined strain of stress and heavy breathing. As if suddenly realizing all he had blurted and his lack of composure, he swiftly cleared his throat, adjusted his tie, and took two steps back. Bond was taken by surprise to say the least. Reserved Q, witty Q, dry Q, had completely vanished. He wasn’t all together sure of who he was standing with now. 

“That will be all, 007. You’re dismissed,” he stated back in his usual candidness. 

But James did not move. He was usually impeccable at finding the right words. The right words to seduce a woman. The right words to extract secrets from enemy agents. The right words to cover his own arse. Not this time, though. It was as if Q had reached into chest and ripped the lungs right out. Several responses tried to take form on his tongue, but the air needed to give them life was absent. 

I would never hurt you…  
I do care. More than you can understand…  
You are the only reason I care…

“Get out of my office or I will have you removed,” Q threatened when James still refused to budge. 

Damn it all…

Just as the Quartermaster was about to reach for his phone, Bond reached over the desk, grabbed him by the hair and pulled him into as soft a kiss as he could manage. At first the young man froze completely, no doubt too shocked to register a proper reaction. James was aware that it was a less than graceless choice (and so far from appropriate that even MI6’s human resources might raise eyebrows), one that undoubtedly compromised any chance for a strictly professional relationship, but he didn’t care. All he cared about was everything Q had said. He smiled against Q’s lips when he felt thin hands find a place on his hips, and it that moment he truly understood that there didn’t need to be words to tell him everything he needed to say. Not now. Not yet. Hopefully not ever. He would have spent an eternity in that moment if R had not walked through the door and dropped 400 pages of files all over the floor.


	2. Knight in Shining Armor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Renaissance Sherlolly ;) Sherlock must joust for Molly's honor."

Molly sat in the back of the grand hall, hands folded neatly in her lap, watching the rest of the court ladies whirl in bright circles of velvet and brocade. It was a beautiful spectacle that never lost its luster even if she had seen the same ladies do the same dance half a dozen times in the past year. Life at His Majesty Mycroft I’s Hampton was exquisitely glamourous, and something she as a Baron’s fourth daughter would never have the chance to witness. True, it was only as handmaiden to the Duchess Mary, but she could not complain. Her mistress was kind, her meals were rich, and the parties never ceased to be radiant (though she was a rubbish dancer, and that was speaking generously). She sighed wistfully and dropped her chin into her propped up arm. Though she tried to fight it, Molly’s eyes inevitably drifted where they always did on nights of festivity: the prince.

Practically every lady in Hampton swooned over him at one point or another. Foreign princesses traveled from all over Europe to see if he would make a worthy suitor, as his portrait was nearly famous in every court. Everyone who was anyone knew he was simultaneously one of the most handsome and intelligent men in England, but most women’s infatuations did not last long. He had been engaged no less than five times and each ended with the princess or duchess calling it off weeks before the wedding. It only took a day in his presence to realize that was Prince Sherlock held in wit was more than overshadowed by his complete lack of charm. Most had decided that even marrying the next in line for the throne was not worth suffering through his deplorable combination of indifference and condescension. He was keener to study the natural sciences than attend to politics or wealth or a wife. Still, Molly could not help but be drawn the king’s younger brother. There was something insurmountably fascinating about his behavior that clutched her curiosity. Where she was born into practically nothing and raised into the court only through the generosity of others, he was practically hell bent on ignoring all his fame and status. While the rest of the court was either dancing the night away or deep in negotiation, he was slumped in a chair with his feet on top of the banquet table, reading a book.

Molly felt her heart jump into her throat when from the other side of the hall, the prince looked up from his book and met her gaze exactly. Her whole face flushed with an embarrassed heat and she quickly averted her stare. However, she bit down hard on her lip when she saw him set the novel aside and slide out of his chair. Please, please, please, God in heaven don’t let him be coming this way, Molly silently prayed. She squeezed her eyes shut and twisted her hands into the fold of her skirt. It was too mortifying to even watch her own failure. He probably interpreted her interest as insolence and she would be shipped back to Dover in a heartbeat. But no matter how much she wanted to curl up and hide, she heard the click of approaching boots and knew her head would be at risk if she didn’t remember her manners.

“Your-your highness,” she quickly stuttered, jumping to her feet and making an admittedly messy curtsy. 

“This is the fourth time I have caught you staring at me at one of my brother’s frivolous parties,” he said pedantically, seemingly without any notice of her clumsiness. “According to the Duchess you are quite the clever girl but fall short when it comes to grace.” 

Molly winced.

“That is correct, your highness.”

“One more formality and I’ll have you scrubbing floors for a week. If I wanted to be flattered I would talk to one of the emptyheaded hens this court seems so fond of. You have an interest in the natural sciences, do you not?”

“That is also correct, your- I mean, yes, I read what I can,” she quickly recovered. 

“Then I shall see you in my study at ten o’clock sharp and no later. I am examining a particularly fascinating crime that occurred two nights ago at the Rose Theatre and want a second pair of eyes.”

***   
It took all of Molly’s energy just to keep her eyes open. She was afraid that if she had to stand for much longer her knees would buckle. Granted, it was her right as a woman to faint at any moment, but she refused to look weak. Sherlock (as she had been ordered to call him) had kept her up well into the morning examining the body of a local magistrate who had dropped dead during a trial for no apparent reason after being in the pinnacle of health. This was the third time just this week that he had called on her to assist him in his late night investigations. Though he always managed to look unaffected by the reduced hours of sleep, the exhausting was starting to take a visible toll on Molly. Her skin was paling even more than usual, lines were forming around the corners of her face, and large purple crescents had taken shape under her eyes. Even the Duchess had commented that she looked ill and might seek the aid of a doctor. Still, she would be damned if she skipped the May Day celebrations for something as pedestrian as sleep.

Though King Mycroft was no athlete himself, he had gone to great expense to arrange a joust for the occasion. Something about panem et circenses being necessary to appease his subjects. Knights and lords from all over England had assembled to compete for the honor of their “May Queens” as was an old tradition to choose the singular lady of the day. As the Duchess was the highest ranking lady at court, Molly and the other ladies in waiting had prime seating for the affair, elevated in the box of the nobles but still in the front row with various other women of title awaiting their champions. The proceeding was simple: men would ride by and select a women from the crowd to joust for. The lady would then tie a favor to his lance if she accepted. Most of the girls around Molly had whole baskets of elaborately embroidered cords in the hopes that multiple gentlemen would vie for their hearts. Though she knew it was silly and pointless, Molly kept a single blue satin ribbon tucked into her sleeve. 

Once the fanfare was trumpeted and the king had bid everyone welcome, Molly was relieved to finally take her seat. The parade of knights was a splendor like nothing she had seen in her entire life. About twenty men all bedecked in shimmering silver armor and crested helms entered the tilt yard on magnificent steeds that sent thunder echoing around the whole field. They circled the sand of the arena twice before lining up to approach the ladies. Most of the decisions were premade, Molly knew, but the selected women put on a show of ecstatic spontaneity nonetheless. One by one the knights’ lances became richly decorated with colorful cords until only a lone figure remained. At first he looked as if he might ride by the women all together, but then suddenly halted in front of Molly. She froze in shock. Who on earth would joust for the honor of a plain lady in waiting with no title of her own or great beauty to boast? She tried to pick out his identity, but the visor of his helm kept everything secret. Still, she tied her lone ribbon to the end of his lance anyway. Only the end of the tournament would tell. 

Excitement manifested in beads of sweat on her neck when Molly saw her nameless knight take his end on the field as first of the list. It was hard enough to stand the heat of the summer under her corset and heavy jacquard, and the addition of anticipation and fatigue only added to the building disaster. The man he was set to ride against was significantly larger in all aspects of his physical being, with a taller torso and broader shoulders that were only accented by the heavyset breastplate embellished with insets of black iron. Her own lord’s armor was much simpler, decorated only with her favor that he had removed from his lance and tucked halfway into his vambrace. Even his shield was simple unpainted steel. Her heart skipped two beats when the first horn was blown and the joust began. In only the first pass her champion knocked his opponent from his horse. 

Molly was overcome with joy as her knight continued to work his way through the lists, dislodging shields and unhorsing men at every round. Half the crowd was cheering for his success by the time he had defeated his fifth opponent in a row. Molly blushed when ladies much higher than herself glared at her with fierce envy. It was as if every childish dream she had when she was a young girl was coming true. When the time came for the last two knights standing, all discomfort and anxiety from lack of sleep disappeared. Even if she didn’t know her champion, her hands still clenched with exhilaration. The last pass!

But then the dream shattered and gave way into a nightmare. The other knight was over eager and charged before the trumpet had sounded. Molly’s lord did not even have time to lower his lance before that of his opponent reached him. But rather hit the shield mounted on his arm, it landed right between his breastplate and gardbrace. Shards of broken wood buried themselves in in his flesh through the weak chainmail, causing a visible flow of blood to stream out of the wound and down the front of his armor. Molly’s hands flew to her mouth to cover her horrified gasp. Her knight hit the ground and his helm rolled off his head at the impact. Then the rest of the crowd gasped collectively as well, for they all witnessed their prince collapsed in the middle of the field. 

Completely forgetting that she was far beyond her place, Molly quickly gathered her farthingale and hurried out onto the yard. She knelt at Sherlock’s side despite the dirt and sand that stained her nicest gown and quickly started pulling off as many pieces of armor as she could without disturbing the wound. The amount of blood he was still oozing made her feel a bite of nausea, but it was surprisingly easy to ignore. All that mattered was getting him taken care of. Half way through undoing the latches on his gorget, Molly felt Sherlock reach up and take her hand. He was breathing heavily, obviously fighting the pain in the side of his chest, but his eyes were less agonized and more intrigued. 

“Most ladies faint at the sight of blood.”

“Most ladies do not spend their nights examining dead bodies with a prince,” she replied with the ghost of a smile. 

He chuckled in reply and Molly realized that it was the first time she had heard him laugh. Though she tried to tame it, her grin grew into a beam. When Sherlock noticed, he raised her hand to his lips and planted a soft kiss on her fingers. 

“I imagine my brother’s surgeon will be here at any moment and I expect to lose consciousness shortly, but I would entreat you to join me for dinner tonight. That is, if you can overlook my failing to win your honor.”

This time it was Molly’s turn to laugh. 

“I’m sure we can work something out. You still make a wonderful knight in shining armor.”


	3. The Oxfordshire Renaissance Faire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Molly and Sherlock go to a renaissance faire"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my last prompt! If you want anything Sherlolly, 00Q, Molly/Q, or Sifki, either drop it in my askbox on Tumblr or leave it in the comments section!

“Come on, Sherlock, it’s going to be fun,” Molly chimed as she started lacing up her corset. “I used to love going to renaissance faires when I was a kid.” 

He only huffed and continued to eye her critically. 

“What on earth makes you think I would enjoy trekking through the woods in ridiculous clothing to watch historically inaccurate acting and spend money on overpriced greasy food?” 

Molly rolled her eyes. Most days she loved her detective dearly, but others it was like trying to take care of an impertinent child. At least she had learned by now how to he worked. Manipulation wasn’t quite the right word. More like employing the right tools. Taking a deep breath, Molly put on the best pouting face she could muster. Her dear old mum would have blushed. For as cold as her sociopath boyfriend was, nothing made him melt faster than her puppy dog eyes (oh, how the tables had turned over the years). After a few moments of staring stubbornly at each other, he finally sighed.

“Fine. But I am not wearing a costume.”  
*** 

“Aw, Sherlock, you look adorable!” Mary greeted when Molly and Sherlock met her and John just inside the front gate. 

Molly could hear him muttering under his breath about how ridiculous the whole thing was and how uncomfortable his stupid clothes were, but she chose to ignore him. After all those crime scenes he had dragged her to and the countless hours he kept her awake working overtime at the morgue, he could suffer her one day at the renaissance festival. John looked about as happy as his best friend, but it seemed that Mary had worked a similar form of persuasion. The partners in crime fighting made quite the pair in their matching tunics and tabards, throwing each other enflamed glances. Of course, Mary was a vision in her elegant red and gold medieval gown, looking like a princess who had just stepped out of a little girl’s storybook. Molly knew her simple green skirt and brown bodice weren’t nearly as impressive, but it was enough to take her back to summers in the United States with her cousins when they would spend whole weekends running around their local faire. Even if the men were still miserable, she was brimming with excitement.  
The Oxfordshire Faire was smaller than the one she visited as a child, temporary tents rather than large permanent structures, but it still had all the classic kitsch that made festivals so charming: the thick wafting scent of turkey legs, half-intoxicated sea shanties ringing on the breeze, and the cheery bustle of patrons of all ages in varying degrees of costuming. 

“Why don’t you two go see a show while Molly and I go shopping,” Mary suggested, finally freeing the anxious boys. “We won’t torture you that much.”

Molly felt a twinge of sadness that Sherlock wouldn’t be spending as much time with her, but she knew it was for the best. Better he complained to John than her. Even if it was supposed to be a double date, his constant negativity would only wear her down. However, it only took about half an hour for the inklings of disappointment to melt away. Endless booths of perfume and jewelry and clothing and trinkets quickly erased any and all notions of unpleasantness. Mary was the perfect exploring companion, encourage Molly to try on or sample anything that caught her fancy. 

She was particularly drawn to an adornments booth that sold a variety of hair and headpieces made out of everything from fabric to ribbon to chainmail. Molly was not usually inclined toward materials other than sentimental items, but had she a weaker will half he paycheck would have gone straight into buying out the shop (even if she would never wear any of their exquisite decorations anywhere else). 

“I’m going to grab a pint. Promise I’ll be right back,” Mary called, no doubt trying to take advantage of how entranced Molly was in all the shining trinkets. 

Aware of her solitude other than the booth worker, a drowsy teenager who gave paid her no attention other than a polite nod, Molly chose a circlet of golden chain with green butterfly charms to lay on the crown of her head, and shamelessly admired it in the mirror. It was far too fine to match her outfit and far too expensive to spend on a trifle, but she luxuriated in it nonetheless. It had been many long years since she felt like a princess.

“I’ll take that one.” 

Molly spun on her heels to find Sherlock standing behind her, just out of mirror’s line of sight. John was nowhere to be seen. 

“Sixty quid, m’lord,” the shop girl droned, sounding about as happy to be there as he was. 

Molly’s face flushed in embarrassment and she quickly put the circlet back on the shelf.

“Really, there’s no need, I was just-“

Sherlock ignored her, dropping money on the counter and picking the piece up himself. 

“Why not? It frames your face and makes your eyes sparkle,” he stated matter-of-factly, as if he was quoting a scientific statement from a textbook. 

Before she could offer another protest, he clipped it back on her head and adjusted it until piece rested perfectly center, his fingers lingering at her hairline. 

“There,” he said in a softer tone. 

Molly didn’t know what to say, so she just stood in awe, staring up at Sherlock. His face no longer looked bitter and annoyed, but calm, and almost amused. To what did she owe this miraculous transformation? Suddenly, his eyebrows came together inquisitively and she was afraid he finally came back to his senses. Same old Sherlock…

“Your clothes don’t match it at all. You should find a dress that does.”

Molly couldn’t stop herself from laughing until she cried.  
*** 

Mary smiled at John from their spot in the pub as she watched Sherlock and Molly leaving the hairpiece shop holding hands and whispering to each other. Another day, another successful push. The two were perfect for one another, true, and undoubtedly in love, but every so often they needed a little help. Even if they didn’t know it.

“What did you tell him?” She asked her husband, taking a long sip of mead. 

“Nothing, actually,” John answered. “He figured it out himself this time.”

Mary choked on her drink.

“Seriously? Sherlock Holmes? Sherlock Holmes actually and honestly turned a trip to the renaissance faire into a legitimate date all on his own?”

John grinned and Mary looked around to see if there were pigs with wings or snow on the ground in the heat of August.


	4. The Villainess is Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Molly as a Bond co-villain with Jim Moriarty?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH!!!!!!   
> This one broke me...

For the first time in years, Q did not know how to feel. He usually had a strong grasp on his emotions, not that they were that hard to keep in check. Holmes family trait, as it were, not feeling. His brothers had forced him to master it at a very young age. It got him pretty far in life, all things considered. MI6 was in constant want of fresh recruits who could put their emotions and personal conflicts in the back seat so pure reason could take the lead. That on top of his sheer brilliance made him the ideal candidate, speaking modestly. But that was all going straight to hell. His brain was a maelstrom of hurt and betrayal and disbelief and fury and countless other feelings he couldn’t even begin to name. He had no idea what to feel and it was tearing his head apart. 

“You have to admit, she’s an incredibly talented actress,” Moriarty purred as he circled the room. “A bona fide leading lady.”

If not for the consulting criminal’s words ringing in his ear, Q might have found solace in Molly’s tears, in the soft quivering of her lips, in her trembling hands that caused the Glock they held to shake on and off target from his forehead. She looked just as distraught as he was, but what were the odds that it was anything more than another act? That’s all any of it had ever been.

“I couldn’t have done a better job myself. Of all the-“

“Stop it, Jim, just stop it!” she demanded between sobs, her hands now barely able to hold the gun upright. 

Her eyes were locked with Q’s and he bit his lip until his mouth filled with the coppery tang of blood. Her chest was heaving with the force of finding breaths in the midst of her apparent distress. Loose strands of hair flew this way and that out of her messy ponytail, framing her bloodshot eyes. Yes, it was incredibly convincing. Could he really be faulted in believing she actually loved him? 

“Q, I swear, I never meant to take it this far,” she pleaded. “I never wanted you to get hurt.”

A cold chuckle escaped from Q’s bloodied lips, almost before he even noticed it had formed on his tongue.

“How could you ever have imagined a different outcome?”

This made her cry even harder, and Moriarty just kept pacing with that same smug grin plastered on his face. Q wished he could carve it off. 

“It’s not too late.” Now she was just desperate. “You can still work with us, we can still be together. Please don’t make me do this.”

It was a wonder the poor thing was even still able to stand. She looked as if she might collapse at any second under the crushing weight of sorrow and guilt. That is, if this wasn’t just another show. ‘Pathetic’ and ‘mewling’ was a strong character choice for her. Seeing her like this, Q had a hard time wrapping his head around the fact that sweet little Dr. Hooper had a hand in the single largest security breach in MI6 history and the murder of four Double-0s. 

“Is this the same scene you put on for Sherlock? Did he fall for it?” he hissed bitterly. 

“No, no, it’s not like that,” Molly practically wailed. “You have to believe me, it only started as a trick. I was ready to give up everything! I love you, Q, why can’t you see that?!”   
Somewhere deep in a dark corner of his heart, Q wanted to believe her. He wanted to believe that all those nights he spent with her wrapped in his arms had been more than a dream. He wanted to believe that she made the down payment on the flat they were going to move into together. He wanted to believe that every kiss wasn’t one lie after another. The urge to succumb to the desire was almost overwhelming. Almost. 

“Tick tock, darling, we’re running out of time,” Moriarty chimed. “If the boy won’t join, then kill him. The agents will be here in a matter of seconds.” 

“Please,” Molly begged. “Please, just come with us.”

Q took a deep but unsteady breath. For a brief moment, he entertained the idea of running away with her. With Silva dead, he was the most qualified computer genius in the world to crush empires and crumble nations. She could have made him rich. She could have made him powerful. They could spend the rest of their days on a tropical island running the planet and falling in love all over again. It was tempting, but for a moment and nothing more. He walked forward until the muzzle of her still shaking pistol was pressed right between his eyes, causing her to shrink with fear.

“For queen and country.”

He closed his eyes and heard three gunshots. The noise caused him to flinch, and take mental note of his own body. There was no pain, but that was hardly ever a fair indicator for whether or not one has been shot. It was only after he realized that the coolness of metal on flesh from Molly’s pistol had disappeared that he brought himself to finally open his eyes. He immediately wished he had not. 

Moriarty was already on the ground with a single red hole in the center of his forehead. The back of his skull was completely shattered, sending a spatter of blood and brain matter around him to form a dark cloud on the cement. Q, however, was more focused on Molly. Her eyes had gone wide, fresh tears spilling over her cheeks, but she had dropped her sidearm and stopped making noise. Both her hands were clutching her stomach, and though no more than four seconds had passed, they were completely coated in blood. Out of the corner of his eye he could see both Bond and Sherlock standing in the doorway, still with their guns trained on Molly, but for some reason, that didn’t concern him. For some reason, his first reaction was not to step away, or to run to his brother, or even wince. Without thinking, he took her in his arms right as he knees gave out and slowly steadied her to the floor without letting her out of his embrace. Despite everything, fear still seized his stomach. 

“Molly, stay with me, Molly,” he rasped, sparing one hand to cup her face. “You’re going to be alright, just stay with me.”

She lied to him. She betrayed him. She took his heart in her hands and destroyed it all for the sake of wealth and power and infamy. But he still didn’t want her to die. 

“I’m so sorry, Q. I love-“ 

That was all she managed to murmur before her chest stopped rising and her eyes stopped blinking. The most successful villainess in British history was dead. 

Q didn’t realize he was crying until he saw one of his own tears splash on her face. Her brown eyes still stared up at him, bleak and empty instead of what was once warm and playful. In that moment, he didn’t care who or what she was. In that moment, she was still Molly Hooper, the girl from the morgue. The girl with the yellow flat. The girl with the pretty lips. The girl he loved. 

“We have to go,” Bond said bluntly, putting a hand on Q’s shoulder, but he refused to budge.

“Let him mourn,” Sherlock snapped and swatted the agent away. 

In the midst of his own despair, Q caught the hint of pain in his older brother’s voice. She had fooled him too, after all, made him her friend and made him believe she mattered. He felt the elder Holmes kneel down next to him and did not object when the detective gently swept her eyes shut. He should have been furious, but instead thought, to hell with it. Let the rest of the world curse her existence. They would grieve her memory, if no one else would.


	5. What Happens in Vegas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hey :) I don't know if you are still writing prompts but if you have time could you write that headcanon about CLINTASHA waking up in Vegas married and wearing wedding veils?"

When Natasha opened her eyes, she was met by a screaming migraine and the sound of Clint vomiting in the bathroom. Chto yebut… she thought, rubbing her temples. The last time she felt this hungover was nearly sixty years ago when one of her classmates in the Red Room had smuggled vodka into the barracks. It had been her first experience with heavy drinking, and she hated life the whole next day. The mixture of painful memories and throbbing behind her eyes made for one hell of an agonizing cocktail. Jesus Christ, was I doing keg-stands last night? 

“Clint,” Nat groaned, pushing herself up from between the crusty motel sheets. “What the fuck did we get into last night?”

They were supposed to be undercover as an engaged couple celebrating their pending nuptials with a night out on the Strip so to better investigate a kingpin with weapons connections to Hydra. It was a grocery run mission compared to what they used to do before the fall of SHIELD, but hey, had to start somewhere. Besides, it gave them an excuse for some one-on-one time that was becoming less and less common with the reassembling of the Avengers. Being on a team was great, but every once in a while it was nice to do a mission with just her partner. No matter how close she became with any of the other guys, Clint remained her most compatible field support and dearest friend. The last thing she remembered was walking into the casino on his arm; him suited up to the nines and her dressed to kill. It was just like old times, playing their roles with ease while scoping out the entire floor layout. If only she could remember what happened after that…

Natasha moved to brush a handful of loose hair out of her face, only to find her hand meeting a long strip of tulle. Mind still muddled, she impatiently ripped the fabric off her head and flung it onto the floor to get a better look. It took a few moments of irksome analysis before she realized what the thing really was: a wedding veil. 

“Clint?!” she screamed, grabbing the veil and kicking in the door to the bathroom. “What. The. Fuck. Is this?!”

She found her archer hunched on the floor in a classic position of prayer to the porcelain god. His suit jacket and bowtie were tossed aside into the shower and his shoes had somehow found their ways into the sink. His face might have been green, as it usually was the mornings after he drank too much, but she couldn’t get a good look through the matching veil that was perched on the crown of his head. 

“Nat…” he moaned. “Please shoot me…”

Natasha rolled her eyes and grabbed Clint by the back collar of his dress shirt, hauling him to his feet despite his adamant whines of protest. She threw him up against the bathroom wall, knowing full well he was probably still too shitfaced to stand on his own, and stepped aside in case there was anything left in his stomach. Good god, he looked even worse than she felt. Clint had always been a lightweight, but this was just pathetic. The frilly white headdress would have been a comical touch if she had even the slightest piece of context. She turned on the faucet and used her spare hand to splash some cold water on his face, pulling another pitiful moan from his off-colored lips.

“Focus, Clint! Why the hell did we wake up in a trashy Vegas motel in wedding veils?”

“I don’t know…” he grumbled. “Did we get married or something?”

“Shit, Clint, did we? Because I sure as hell don’t know?”

She was about to go off on him even more when both their phones “dinged” at the same time. Sighing heavily, Nat let Clint go to rummage through the sheets in search of her cell, finding it in a nest of pantyhose and slips. Three new text messages from Tony Stark. Odd. What the hell could he possibly want? 

‘Cap and I stopped by to check on you two last night. Congrats!’ It was followed by two slightly blurry cellphone camera photos: the first of her and Clint kissing in front of a man dressed in a horribly cheesy Elvis Presley costume, the second of Natasha throwing a bouquet of plastic flowers into a crowd of what looked like drunk frat boys. 

Natasha felt her entire face drain of blood. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. No, no, no, no, no, no, no!

“CLINT, I WANT A DIVORCE!”


	6. Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Molly adopt a puppy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: may be triggering to anyone who has lost a pet recently.

Toby was an old cat, practically ancient as far as feline lifespans went, but that did not make the decision any easier. He had gone weeks without walking, days without eating, hours without ceasing caterwauls of pain. Taking care of him at nearly all hours of the day was tearing Molly’s social and work life apart. The tabby was her oldest friend, and she considered him to be a member of her own family. He had been a gift from her grandmother right before her father died with the intention of providing solace amidst the grief. The poor animal’s suffering was nearly too much for them both to bear, and it was then that Sherlock found the courage to broach the sensitive subject of veterinary options with her. After nearly two days of continuous weeping and insisting that it was too cruel and unfair, Molly finally realized there was nothing else they could do. 

Sherlock stayed with her the whole time. As horrible as it was to admit, the loss of a dearly beloved pet was one of the few human conditions with which he could empathize. She was devastated to say the least. She called into St. Bart’s and redeemed four of her vacation days, using the first to make the laborious and heartbreaking trip to the vet’s office. Sherlock wanted to be in the room with her, but she insisted that it had to be only her and Toby. They buried him in her garden with a small limestone angel statue as headstone. This perplexed Sherlock, as he knew most Christian and other angelic religions did not believe in any spiritual redemption for animals after death, but for once he didn’t need John to remind him to keep his mouth shut. The next three days, Molly refused to get out of bed, but very rarely slept. It took a solid 30 hours for Sherlock to get her to eat anything more than a piece of toast. Most of the time, though, all she wanted was to be wrapped in her blankets alone. Even after her four days were up and it was time to go back to the morgue, not much changed. Sherlock estimated that over the course of two weeks she lost fifteen pounds, and had not once left her flat to do anything more than go to work. Not to visit 221B, not to pick up books at the library, not even to grocery shop. He knew she wasn’t eating unless he was around to force her. When week three rolled around, that was when Sherlock finally had enough.

“This is a bad idea,” John warned. “You can’t just spring this on her and expect her to be okay with it.”

“Of course I can,” Sherlock replied with a snort of derision. “Obviously she needs animal companionship.”

“Sherlock, you can’t just drop by her flat with a puppy!”

He shook his head, removing his gloves and tucking them into his coat pockets as the two of them walked through the front doors of the pound. Absolutely absurd. A puppy would solve everything. Molly could nurture it and Sherlock could train it. They would have a stronger reason to spend time together, and possibly even act as a catalyst for her to move in. Despite John’s warning, Sherlock saw no way this could go wrong.

***   
Molly was speechless. Absolutely speechless. Sherlock had pulled some mindboggling stunts in their time as a couple; like the time he took her undercover to a Parisian smuggling ring in hopes that the French backdrop would be romantic, or filling her flat with 13 dozen roses two days before Valentine’s Day. But this, this, was a new kind of insanity. There was her boyfriend, grinning like a bloody idiot, holding a baby spaniel in his arms as if it were a child. She knew he was good with kids and she knew he had an Irish setter as a kid, but the very last thing she expected was for him to actually come to her doorstep with a puppy. 

“Did you… did you… did you adopt that?” she managed to spit out as he was already making his way into her kitchen to dig out a bowl for water.

“It’s a her, actually. Female canines are significantly more obedient than males, which seemed like a valuable feature considering city environments hold more risks for untrained dogs than rural areas.”

“You seriously adopted a puppy?! Sherlock, how are you going to take care of it?” 

This was crazy, even by Holmes standards. He wasn’t home enough to properly raise a pet, and god knows Mrs. Hudson isn’t going to do it. Sherlock tossed her a look of obvious quizzicality, the same he used whenever she was particularly slow to catch up with a string of deductions. 

“Between our schedules it should be fairly unchallenging.”

Molly felt her jaw go slack.

“Our? I can’t have a dog!” 

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes, as if she was nothing but a child resisting the birth of a new sibling, and Molly would have slapped him if the little girl hadn’t still been asleep in his arms. She was cute, all things considered, with long, well brushed, fur and floppy ears the little thing probably stepped on constantly. Her tiny wet nose wriggled with every breath and her paws twitched with the high energy of dreaming. Sure, Molly had to admit, she was adorable, but that didn’t mean she wanted to raise it! 

Without a single word, Sherlock suddenly thrust the spaniel into Molly’s hands, causing both of them to yelp in surprise. The now awake puppy was staring right up at the pathologist, large eyes shining and fluffy tail wagging. Before Molly could even try to give her back to Sherlock, the dog was lunging forward to plant slobbery licks all over her face. Molly had never been a dog person. She always thought they were so unintelligent and dirty compared to cats, but there was nothing stupid or disgusting in the wet kisses. For the first time since Toby had been put down, there was a familiar warmth in her chest she thought she never expected to feel again. 

“Alright, alright, I’ll give her a chance!” she ceded, hugging the puppy to her torso. “As long as I get to name her.”

Sherlock smiled smugly, but lightly kissed Molly’s forehead. 

“Anything.”

“Rose. I like Rose.”


	7. Partners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 00Q University AU please?:)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a darker turn than I expected...

“Have you been on time to a single class this semester?” Eve asked in a barely audible whisper and James slid into the seat next to her.

Professor Mallory either did not notice his late attendance or chose to ignore it.

“Thankfully not. Can’t stand statistics,” he smirked. “I wouldn’t come at all if M wasn’t threatening to revoke my scholarship.”

Eve rolled her eyes and tried not to be frustrated with the obvious favoritism he received from the head of the Global Studies department. The older woman had given the brat nearly a full ride because she claimed to see “potential” in him. All Eve saw was a man whose only skills were doing eight shots in a row and charming his way out of everything. He was a dear friend, but it was hard not to be bitter. She had been student government VP her freshman year, was a TA for two different professors, and her GPA never dropped below a 4.0. If anyone deserved that money it was her. She decided to change the subject before the urge to smack him with her textbook became too strong to resist.

“Have you met the new transfer student who just joined the computer science program with Rachel? She says he lives right down the hall from you.”

“I don’t keep track of R’s friends, much less the boffins she keeps trying to into the intelligence recruitment program,” he grumbled, pretending to take notes.

“Well you should. He’s in our global studies research methods class and according to R, M wants you two to partner up and work on a project to explore technological advancements in the field of intelligence.”

Eve had been ‘frienemies’ with James since high school. They were always in competition, but still just as happy to have a pint together all the same. If there was anyone in whose hands she would put her life, he would at least be her second choice. Still, there was something incredibly satisfying about watching his blood pressure rise so quickly that a small vein on the side of his left temple started visibly throbbing.

“M knows I don’t work well with partners,” he growled. “She hasn’t made me do group work in two years.”

“Well, you do now.”

James’ whole face turned red, and Eve had to drop her head against her desk to keep her laughter from reaching the front of the classroom.

***

A junior. The kid was a bloody junior and didn’t look a day older than seventeen. Even worse, he didn’t seem to be paying attention to James in the slightest, but sat there tapping away at a tablet and nonchalantly sipping out of a travel mug printed with Scrabble tiles. M was looking smug to say the least as she eyed the pair over the top of her desk.

“You must be joking.”

“You should be pleased, Bond. Sherrinford is one of the top computer science research students in the country. You two should make some incredible strides this year,” she said, all too pleased with herself.

“‘Q’ will do just fine,” the kid corrected without looking up from his work. “The anonymity of a pseudonym makes life far easier.”

James wanted nothing more than to snap those hipster specs right off his pretentious face. Part of what made Bond an asset was his ability to work well alone; to function without anyone else’s help or directions, and take charge of an initiative regardless of authority. At least, that’s what he had assumed up until now. Deep down, he desperately hoped that this was all some sort of sick joke for M and Eve’s amusement, but knew it wasn’t true.

“And if I chose not to work with him?” James challenged.

M cocked an eyebrow.

“Then I’ll give your scholarship to Moneypenny and make you retake the class. Any questions?”

“No, ma’am,” he finally relented with an exasperated sigh.

“Good. Then I suggest you get to know your new partner and start working on ideas. Give me a full report on your progress in two weeks. Dismissed.”

James stormed out of the office, but looked over his shoulder to see the new golden child trailing after him, the tablet finally tucked back into his messenger bag. He looked even younger now that Bond could see his whole face. He was far too pale and gaunt, the trademark look of someone who spent far too much time inside and in front of a computer screen. James could easily snap him in half if he felt like it. A tempting thought if he could make it look like an accident…

“This isn’t going to be any easier if you hold onto this restrictive animosity,” Q chimed matter-of-factly. “I don’t like having a partner any more than you do, but we might as well get it over with. And let’s face it, this whole process will be easier if you just do what I tell you.”

James had a feeling that this was going to be the longest year of his life.

***

_Coffee or Red Bull? Coffee? Or Red Bull? Both? Can I do both without dying? Coffee or Red Bull?_

James tried to focus on the textbook open on the table, but the thought kept repeating on loop around his brain. He was somewhat aware that Q was going to kill him if he didn’t have the last two chapters finished by the time he got out of his night class, but James could barely keep his eyes open. Four all-nighters in a row was too many even for him. He knew he was never going to hear the end of it, but he might have to admit that Q had been right. Waiting until the very end of the semester to put together their presentation had been a bad idea…

_Coffee or Red Bull?_

Q was supposed to meet him in the library half an hour ago. The kid was a lot of things -motivated, bossy, obnoxious, overbearing- but not tardy. If anything, he was annoyingly punctual. If he didn’t show up soon, James was going to pass out on the study table. Fighting back a yawn, he dialed Q’s number on his mobile, and groaned when after a few rings it went to voicemail. What had the twat gotten himself into that he couldn’t even pick up his damn phone? James finally closed the textbook and put it back on the shelf. He knew Q’s class was only a few buildings down and he was such a creature of habit that James could pick out his predictable route even half asleep. He swore that if the kid wasn’t already dead, he was going to kill him.

As James rounded the corner between the library and the engineering building, he realized that his sentiment was a little too applicable for comfort. There were two figures standing next to the back door, one recognizable even by silhouette as Q, the second much taller and wider than any of the other techies with which he usually affiliated himself. At first they seemed to be doing nothing more than talking, their voices hushed and bodies at a normal conversational distance. But as James got closer, being careful not to make himself known, he noticed Q’s swollen eye and the blood running from his nose down his chin to cover the front of his cardigan. Bond tucked himself tight against an alcove in the wall, every instinct screaming for him to listen.

“You’re late. Again,” he heard the other man growl in a deep voice.

“Business has been slow,” Q answered with a sputter as he had to spit out some blood. “Look, I don’t have the money, but I can accommodate the same arrangement we made last month.”

The other man let out a throaty chuckle.

“I don’t think so. With how much you owe us, that would make you a far more expensive whore than you’re worth. I can, however, make an example of you.”

He pulled his fist back, and James decided he’d heard enough. Before the man even had time to land the blow, James grabbed him by the arm and twisted it behind his back until the socket let out a satisfying _snap_. When he cried out in pain, he swept his foot out from under him and plowed his face into the concrete sidewalk, blood splattering from his face as his cheek his a sharp piece of gravel. Just for good measure, he added a few extra kicks to the chest until the grounded man was struggling just to breathe.

“If you ever touch Q again, you can expect more than a few broken ribs,” James warned before delivering a final punch to the neck to that he would stay unconscious.

When James rose back to his feet, Q was gaping, his eyes flicking back and forth between his partner and this attacker. Upon closer inspection, James saw that along with the black eye and broken nose, there were finger marks on his neck and his leg was twisted slightly at the knee. He quickly wrapped an arm around Q’s shoulder so he could give him a support while quickly guiding him away and back toward their dorm hall.

“You want to explain what I just saved you from?” Bond demanded. He felt sorry for the young man, but not enough to be sensitive.

“I appreciate the assistance, but it’s really none of your concern.”

“Bullshit. Now tell me or instead of taking you back to your dorm I’ll drop you on M’s doorstep,” James threatened.

Q sighed, which caused him to sputter again and cough up a mixture of dark blood and phlegm. James had seen worse when Eve had talked him into doing MMA his sophomore year, but not in someone as small or thin as his partner. Though he was more than familiar with the sight of blood and broken bones, seeing Q this way still made him feel uneasy. They stopped at a bench in front of the dormitories so he could catch his breath. He had to grip the armrest like a lifeline to keep from shaking so hard he would fall off, and James held his other arm just in case.

“It’s something I got into back in high school,” he started slowly. “I needed something to keep the codes from running through my head all the time.”

“Christ, Q, I thought you were smarter than that,” James hissed, but he looked unfazed and continued anyway.

“I figured if I was taking it, I could make a profit from selling it as well, and the habit sort of followed me into uni. I did well at my other campus, but I suppose I just got in a little over my head here.”

“Well that’s the understatement of the bloody year.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Q ordered, his voice razor sharp despite the thick fluid still leaking out from between his lips. “If you say a word, I’ll get M to expel you faster than you can crack a charming smile.”

James grabbed Q’s jaw, not enough to be rough but just tight enough to hold his attention and get him to meet his furious gaze.

“I won’t tell anyone, but only if you get your fucking act together. I don’t want to find you like this again. _Ever._ ”

The younger man forced a wheezing, sarcastic laugh.

“Getting sentimental, are we?”

James twisted his face into a scowl, but dropped his hand from Q’s face so he could gently touch his arm.

“You can call it that if you want.”

Even in the dark and through the bruises, James could see Q’s cheeks flush red, but he still twisted his palm around so that their fingers could entwine. It occurred to Bond just how little he knew about the young man, but it also dawned on him that he did not want it to remain that way. He would not push him, he would not test him, but he would be there for as long as Q could stand him. Though he didn’t say any of it out loud, James still lightly kissed Q’s forehead and felt him shiver as he closed his eyes. In an instant, he found his partner nestled in his arms, as if giving James permission to shield him from his mistakes and all the consequences therein. He silently promised to do so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts are once again open, dear readers! If there's anything you want, just drop it at my tumblr ask box: http://teyriantimelord10.tumblr.com/post/115527209484/prompts-open-again


	8. Usually The Perfect Roommate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Uni AU where Natasha and Bond have a thing and Hawkeye doesn't like it. Thx!'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had way too much fun with this one.

Natasha was _usually_ the perfect roommate. She always cleaned up the kitchen after use, kept her mountains of beauty products to her side of the bathroom sink, religiously kept the freezer stocked with ice cream, and (almost) never hogged the Xbox on weekends. If he asked, she would wing-woman for him at bars, drive him to class, or just about anything really if he gave her the right puppy-dog face. It was almost like being married to his best friend, but without all the romantic emotional attachment and fear of alimony. As such, Clint _usually_ enjoyed sharing an apartment with her. However, there were nights when this was not the case. Specifically, nights she brought home guys. Even more specifically, nights she brought home Bond.

He knew it was one of those nights the minute he walked through the door after getting home from a late archery meet. The two of them had a very unique sense of foreplay that was, even though he didn’t begin to understand the details, very unique to say the least. Pants were strewn across the kitchen counter. Shirts were flung over the television. For God’s sake, her bra was hanging from the ceiling fan. Again. The door to Nat’s room was closed with a blue tie wrapped around the handle, but Clint could still clearly hear the ebbing tones of classical symphony music rattling the walls. Well, maybe that really wasn’t the music.

Clint groaned and trudged over to the fridge to grab some cold pizza. He knew it was none of his damn business who Natasha slept with, that she was an adult capable of making her own decisions, and he had no right to tell her otherwise. But that didn’t mean he had to be happy about her choice of fuck buddies. This was the sixth time in the last two years that she had brought James back to the apartment for a late night (and she didn’t bother to tell him how many nights she spent at his place), yet he still couldn’t bring himself to like him. Even if he had a history with Natasha that she hadn’t fully disclosed to Clint yet, the older guy was still so sleek and slimy that his first instinct was to treat him like a snake. He bounced from one conquest to another like they were nothing but toys, not discriminating on age, gender, or relationship status. Yes, Clint knew that Natasha was aware and unbothered by it, but in his eyes it seemed disrespectful. Like he was cheapening Natasha as a person. He wanted to see her treated like a goddess, not a plaything.  

He was still on the couch playing Call of Duty and eating pizza when the pair finally emerged, Nat wearing her black satin bathrobe and James with nothing but a bath towel wrapped around his hips.

“Hey, Clint, I thought you were staying out for the night,” she said casually and ran a hand through her distractingly mussed hair.

“Nope, that’s tomorrow night I’m staying out,” he replied, trying to keep his eyes on the game and off Bond’s hand that was resting possessively on the small of Natasha’s back. “Just an archery meet today.”

“Any pizza left?”

“Not anymore.”

“Asshole.”

Clint was about to reply with a counter playful insult, but before he could get anything out James took her by the hand and gracefully twirled her into his arms, causing her to let out a little giggle. Natasha _never_ giggled.

“If you’re hungry, I can take you out somewhere nice,” he offered with his lips against her neck.

She rewarded him with another little laugh. Clint wanted to puke. She was adorable. Natasha was many things in his eyes: strong, beautiful, powerful, determined, a boss ass bitch capable of killing a man with her thighs. But never adorable.

“Why don’t you just order some takeout? I’m going to jump in the shower.”

She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and a little wave in Clint’s direction before heading off to the bathroom. He had to resist the urge to throw the controller at her head. She knew he hated James. Leaving them alone together was just cruel. He had to think of some clever way to repay the favor. In the midst of the tense silence, he had plenty of time to come up with ideas. Though he was still deep in concentration focused on his game, Clint could feel Bond standing over his shoulder, analyzing him judgmentally.

“You do a very good job of hiding your territoriality,” James commented out of the blue.

“Natasha’s my roommate, not my girlfriend,” he stated bluntly without looking up.

“I never said that she was, but you’re still defensive of her.”

This made Clint turn around.

“Shut your whore mouth before I do it for you,” he growled.

“Admirable,” James continued, ignoring the threat. “I usually find women who are spoken for to be more attractive. For the most part I thought Natasha was the exception to the rule, but maybe not so much as I first anticipated. You’re a very loyal friend, Barton.”

It was then that Clint jumped over the back of the couch and punched James square in face.

 


	9. Her Eyes Spoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If I may be so bold, I'd like to see what your take on what Czarist Russia BuckyNat would be. I feel like a romance between young-Cossack-Bucky and guardian-of-the-czarina-Natasha would be a neat fic. :)"

Wars usually change things for the worse. Lovers are parted, families are broken, homes are destroyed. Kings and governments grow fat on a feast of death served from the backs of the common man at the hands of the common soldier. Thousands of innocents lost everything they had and more, and yet it was the only thing Yakov ever wanted. The other men in his unit were anxious, terrified even, when the Cossacks were given orders to fight the Germans on the eastern front. The world was at war for the first time in history, and he couldn’t wait to be a part of it. Natalia disapproved, of course. He was older than her, but she still called him a stupid child. _They aren’t sending young men to fight for motherland, they’re sending them to die for her_ she warned. As Czarina Alexandra’s personal attendant in the Imperial Guard, she was too close to politics to have even the faintest hint of the idealistic and battle-thirsty nationalism that coursed through his blood. For all her scolding, Yakov was a little hurt that she didn’t cry when his unit shipped out of Petrograd to go east. It was the September of 1914. He asked her to write to him, but she insisted he would be dead before any of her letter would ever reach his camp.

He should have known that Natalia was right. Not two months into the fighting, half his unit was taken prisoner by the Germans after a messy battle in Poland. It was two years before an American captain named Steven Rogers and his platoon liberated the camp. He was an odd man, more peacemaker than soldier. He was more concerned with care of the newly freed prisoners than executing the guards. Yakov was intrigued, engaged even. When his cellblock was opened, Captain Rogers quickly reciprocated the interest when he learned that Yakov spoke almost perfect English. He learned that the American was the leader of an international force with no purpose other than liberation POV camps on both fronts of the war. Six months turned Captain Rogers into Steve and Yakov Baranovich into Bucky, and another four months and a few shattered arm bones before he finally decided it was time to go home whether the war was over or not. He was a little hurt that Natalia didn’t cry when he came back.

_Petrograd- February 23rd, 1917_

“Wake up. You’re lazy ass is late,” Natalia stated as she flung open the curtains to flood her bedroom with sunlight.

Bucky groaned and pulled the blanket over his head in a child-like attempt to block out the painful light, only to feel her yank it away completely, leaving his bare skin exposed to the bitter cold. Natalia looked all too amused, already clothed in her heavy winter uniform. Though he gave her an annoyed scowl, it wasn’t until he started shivering that she finally smirked and threw the blanket back.

“And what am I late for, empress?” he grumbled once he had finally rewrapped himself.

“Work. Some connections of mine in the 1st Guards Cavalry Division 3rd Cossack Brigade are short on men and need the extra hands. The Czar has been insisting on keeping the Life-Guard fully armed; something about unrest over the war…” she trailed off at the last bit, and Bucky saw her eyes drift only for a moment to his nearly useless left arm (granted, not too useless to hold a rifle), and though she was sensitive enough not to stare, he could still feel her indignation and anger.

“I got home last night and you already expect me to work today?” he complained when she tossed his boots and coat on the foot of the bed.

She flashed him a mischievous grin and bent down to run her gloved hand along the curve of his cheek.

“I expect you to stay sharp. You’re no use to me as a sparring partner or a bed partner if you get out of practice.”

He smiled back, but when he leaned in for a kiss she put two fingers between their lips just enough to keep them from touching. _Ah, ah, ah_ , her sparkling eyes scolded, not needing words. _Be patient, my love. Not everything at once._ Natalia’s talkative eyes was one of the images Bucky had clung to in the prison; the way they spoke more often than her voice and with an enchanting elegance that could almost make one forget she was capable of killing a man with her bare hands. But though her eyes scolded, her lips teased and all he wanted was to pull her back onto the bed and relive the night before for the rest of their lives. He almost did, but she stood back up and wrapped her scarf up around her neck.

“Put your clothes on and report for duty, Cossack. The Czar doesn’t pay you to sleep all day,” she ordered with a sardonic flourish before striding out of the room for her own job.

Bucky sighed. She was disappointed, he could tell. Happy he was home, but disappointed. In him, in the Czar, in the war, in the world, maybe, it was hard to say exactly, but she was acting to be in too good a mood for her to be anything but perturbed. Best not to make that any worse. Despite the aching in his chest and arm, he slowly got dressed and made his way to the other Cossacks assembled in front of the Imperial Palace. Along the way, he couldn’t help but notice that even though the streets were emptier than usual, they were somehow also more bustling, as if those few who were still alive in the midst of the war were scurrying to get something done. He was relieved to find a few familiar faces among the men in the 3rd Brigade, some from training and a couple from the infantry on the eastern front. The commander looked vaguely familiar, but Bucky had no name to put to a face.

“Romanova told us you would be join us late,” the commander stated, but not unkindly, as he inspected Bucky from head to foot. “I was shocked when she said you had made it back at all. Not many men are lucky enough to come home before a war is over.”

“Luckier than most, at least,” he agreed, trying not to think of how much movement he had lost in his arm.

It did not take long for him to notice the rest of the men beginning to fidget more than before.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Protests, I heard,” a young soldier answered. “They’re starting on the edges of the city.”

“Our orders are to stay here and defend the palace,” the commander elaborated, and Bucky felt a pit form in his stomach.

When the night shift came to relieve them, he was saddened but not surprised that he went back to Natalia’s apartments to find them empty. The bed was cold, and he had to bite back a scream at smelling her on the pillow but being alone.

_February 27 th _

            A familiar fear took hold of Bucky’s mind and clutched his lungs with an iron grip as he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the other armed Cossacks while the mob drew closer to the palace gates. The angry screams and howls of suffering were deafening on the thin dawn air, not unlike the battle cries of wounded soldier who forced themselves to fight on. He and the other soldiers looked to the commander atop his horse, but the man was only staring at a piece of paper in his hands while his lips pursed tightly together. Bucky’s finger was instinctually rested on the trigger of rifle, even though he was not eager to fire on the approaching citizens. Fast approaching citizens.

            “What do we do?” one of the foot soldiers finally asked. He was no more than a boy, knees visibly shaking even under his heavy overcoat.

            The commander took in a sharp breath.

“Men, I am not going to lie,” he announced in a booming voice. “We have order from the Czar to suppress these riots by force.”

His long pause made Bucky hold his breath.

“But we also have orders from God to protect the dignity of the motherland’s people. The Czar has done nothing but send her sons to be slaughtered by Germans and let her daughters starve in the streets! Gentleman, revolution is upon us, and we will not stand here in idleness as our brothers and sisters give their very lives for the betterment of Russia. I ask you now to stand and fight for the glory of our country and all her people!”

While the other men cheered in agreement, shouted affirmations like ‘kill the Czar!’ and ‘storm the palace!’ Bucky’s fear turned to anxiety. A force as strong as theirs matched with the sheer numbers of the oncoming masses would make it into the palace before nightfall. Yes, people were starving. Yes, he had suffered for two years in a Polish prison camp for the Czar’s war, but the ideals of liberty and equality were snuffed by thoughts of Natalia. A mob this broken and bloodthirsty would not stop to interrogate each member of the Imperial Guard as to the potential of their true allegiance. If they breached the palace walls, she would be shot on sight.

Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, Bucky quickly turned and sprinted along the gate toward the back of the palace, not caring as his fellow soldiers hurled insults at him and called him a coward and a traitor to the people. Maybe under different circumstances he would have stayed; been so bitter for his childish rush to be a pawn manipulated in the Czar’s games, but he lost Natalia once for idealism, and refused to do some again.

Thankfully Bucky could the guards at the less heavily guarded back gate by their colors to also be part of the Czarina’s Life Guard regiment. Though they pointed their rifles at him, he held his hands up in surrender.

“Please, you have to get me to Romanova,” he begged, out of breath from his run. “The front gates won’t hold for long. The royal family needs to be smuggled out now or the mobs will kill them all and everyone in their way.”

“I know where Romanova is,” one of the older guards spoke up. “Hand over your weapon and I can take you.”

Bucky did so gladly and followed the guardsman up the frosted pavement to an entrance through the frozen garden and up a back staircase that opened up into a small room that looked as if it was hidden within the walls, being bare of any paint or furniture other than a small table. Natalia and a few other members of the Imperial Guard were huddled around it, talking in hushed voices. The guardsman who led him there cleared his throat, causing the others to look their way. Natalia’s eyes went wide with shock.

“What are you doing here?!” she hissed, grabbing Bucky by his good arm and pulling him over to a corner away from the others. “You’re supposed to be holding the front gates.”

“The men turned and joined the riots,” he explained.

“Christ,” Natalia groaned and rubbed her temples. Bucky took her hand in his.

“If we don’t leave now, they’ll kill you with the royal family,” he said just above a whisper. “Let’s just run. You’ve given everything for the Czar, you don’t need to give him your life.”

She stared back at him with her jaw slack and eyes harsh, half in surprise and half in anger. He didn’t regret saying it, but now he understood her disappointment. She was disappointed that her state had failed, disappointed that she had not done enough to protect it, and disappointed in him for changing during the war. _I wouldn’t have cared_ her eyes said. _I wouldn’t have cared if you defended the Czar to your last breath or put the bullet in his brain yourself, as long as you had fought for something_. _Now you want to run._ _I fell in love with a soldier. He was stupid and naïve, but I loved him. You aren’t a soldier anymore,_ and now he could feel the full weight of her dissatisfaction. But instead of saying it out loud, she simply planted a soft and almost remorseful kiss on the corner of his lips.

“You gave everything, and you suffered,” she murmured as if her eyes had not just torn him apart. “Run. Go find the Captain America who saved you. Start a new life. But I have more to give.”

She had not cried when he left for war convinced he would die. She had not cried when he came home against all odds. Yet a single tear rolled over the crest of her cheek. It was at that moment that it was the tear of someone who did not have enough left to weep. Had they never been there to begin with or frozen up inside, he wondered.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he finally answered. “I won’t let them kill you to get to the Czar.”

Despite the shimmer of liquid that still sparkled on her skin, Natalia laughed.

“Go. Start a new life and I will find you one day.”

He opened his mouth to object, but she put a finger to his lips the same as she did on the last sunrise they spent together. She leaned in so that her breath was hot on his ear and he could not hear what her eyes were trying to say

“I promise I will find you one day, but today, I am go to kill the Czar.” 


	10. The Art of Rhetoric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a Sifki prompt: Loki and Sif speech club AU. Go :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Loki usually gets the wrap for being smug, but have you seen Jaimie Alexander's smug face?! It's adorable.

Loki tried not to be bitter about Sif quitting speech right before the national tournament so she could focus on lacrosse, he really tried. Okay, maybe he tried to try. Alright, alright, yes, he was actively and terribly bitter about Sif quitting speech right before the national tournament so she could focus on lacrosse. Not only was it cruel to the rest of the team, it was cruel to him. He had poured countless exhausted hours into training her and making her the single most eloquent girl at Asgard Preparatory Academy. With his voice and her persistence, they were poised to be champions. How dare she take their inevitable victory and throw it away for a ball and a stick?!

The fact that she was going to college on a lacrosse scholarship was irrelevant.

A few sharp knocks on the door made him sit up from where he had been reclining on the hotel bed.

“What?” he snapped.

“Are you going to keep pouting or are you actually going to get out here and talk?” an irritated voice called through the wood.

“I’m not interested in speaking with you, Sif,” he growled.

He heard her sigh and knew she was rolling her eyes.

“Loki, I swear that if you don’t open this door right now I will kick it down and put the damage on your room tab.”

Much to his chagrin, he knew she wasn’t bluffing. He had firsthand experience of her leg strength from freshman year when she convinced him to take a demo class at her Tae Kwon Do dojo and she side kicked him in the chest so hard that he had trouble breathing for two days after. He finally opened the door to find her already completely dressed in her tailored pant suit, even though their last match of the regional championships wasn’t for another few hours, the toes of her fancy high heels tapping the floor impatiently. He expected her to look as furious as he felt; as furious as she had been an hour ago when she broke the news that she was leaving the team after this competition and he started a fight in the middle of the hotel restaurant. Instead, she just looked annoyed, and this irked Loki.

“Are you done being childish?” she asked, placing one hand on her hip. “The rest of the team is celebrating in the next room over.”

“An ironically condescending choice of adjective from the one who has such a small sense of commitment,” he hissed.

Sif sighed exasperatedly.

“Are you man about me leaving the team or mad that once I get back into lacrosse training I won’t have as much time to spend with you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” he retorted with a scoff, and hoped she didn’t notice the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. “You were a valuable asset for the team and now you are choosing a simplistic and crude sport over our place in the national championships.

“Uh-huh…” she vocalized sarcastically, finally shoving Loki out of the way so she could get into the room and close the door behind her.

Loki drew his shoulders back indignantly as Sif turned to stand toe-to-toe with him. It didn’t matter that she was almost half a foot shorter than he was, she still fearlessly glared right into his eyes. Staring down his opponents was a tool he often employed in tournaments. Whether it was during a debate to show his confidence or while another competitor was giving a speech as a means of distraction, most people found his gaze incredibly compelling. He was always conflicted as to whether he loved or hated that it never was for Sif.

“Listen, Silvertongue, you have a whole speech club that is counting on you to get your act together. If it means so much to you that we spend time together, then man up and ask me out because if your brother asks, I’ll say yes and your chance is gone. If not, get your head out of your ass and be the team leader you promised these kids you would be!” she nearly shouted, jamming an accusingly pointed finger into his chest.

When he didn’t respond, the two of them stood there in tense silence for several moments, Loki’s breath caught in his throat and Sif’s chest heaving from her outburst. Neither broke eye contact, and neither stepped back. If there was anything he hated more than losing and being proven wrong, it was doing both to Sif, and she knew it. He must have flinched, because the right corner of her lips was beginning to curl into the start of the same smug grin her face took on whenever she won anything. However, he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of being self-satisfied. Before she had the chance to even fully shape that antagonizing smirk, he reached out, tangled his long fingers in her hair, and pulled her into a harsh kiss. A part of it was spiteful and angry, his intent to make her fully understand how much her leaving the team hurt him, but another part was affectionate, a plea and a promise. He was not surprised to find that she wasn’t taken off guard at all. She threw her arms around his neck the instant his lips touched hers. Maybe he had coached her a little too well on the art of rhetoric and manipulation…


	11. 2 a.m.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Unilock: John and Leatrade try to help Sherlock gather the courage to ask Molly out"

_Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!_

Greg groaned and glanced at his watch. 2:30 am. Jesus Christ, was that pounding in his head? After only two pints? Oh wait, no, it was on the door. Rubbing his eyes and grabbing a t-shirt to pull over his bare chest, he forced himself to roll out bed to answer that infernal knocking that would not stop. Being an RA for the freshman dorms was great, really. He loved putting together pizza and movie nights, helping new students find their way around, making the kids feel more secure about their new homes, but holy shit he could not wait for the semester to finally be over so he could get a solid night’s sleep. If he had to deal with one more midnight complaint about the rank of marijuana or screeching violin noises coming from Sherlock’s room, he was going to throttle that guy to within an inch of his life.

He opened the door and sighed. Not a complaint from another student, thank God, but the next worst thing: a complaint from Sherlock’s roommate.

“What on earth has he done this time, John?” Greg asked impatiently with a yawn.

Despite the ungodly hour, John was still in his day clothes, shirt messily untucked and pants wrinkled to within an inch of their sorry lives. Dark shadows around the bottom of his eyes told Greg that the poor rugby player hadn’t slept in days, more likely than not from his obnoxious dorm mate’s noisy shenanigans.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“That’s the problem. Not a damn thing. He hasn’t left the room in a week, he only plays his violin quietly, he’s smoking cigarettes instead of joints. Something’s wrong,” John explained.

Greg had to stop and scratch his head for a moment, blinking several times to make sure he wasn’t in some back-ass-ward dream. He was getting a complaint about Sherlock Holmes actually not being a colossal ass? It was the stuff of twisted trips.

“Alright,” he finally ceded. “Let’s go see what’s got his knickers in a twist.”

With John exhaling in relief, the two made their way to the dorm room at the very end of the hall (Mycroft Holmes had specifically talked with the housing department to get his little brother’s room as secluded as possible while still forcing him to live on campus). When John slowly opened the door, Greg was immediately accosted by a thick cloud of heavy tobacco smoke and the low tune of befuddled humming. Through the dimness, he could see that Sherlock was perched on top of the chair he had moved to be on top of his desk scattered with papers, book, empty energy drink cans, and empty packs of cigarettes, giving the makeshift structure the appearance of a Hoover Ville pyramid. The man himself had his legs propped up on the window sill, a half smoked stick lazily held between his lips, and his eyes closed under a lazy frown.

“Get out,” he ordered without opening his eyes, taking such a long drag that the cigarette burned out completely and he spit the butt aside.

“Sherlock, consider this an intervention,” John announced as he flicked on the lights. “I can’t stand your moping anymore.”

“I don’t need an intervention.”

The words sounded like a pout.

“Yes you do, mate,” Greg coughed, still trying to evict the secondhand smoke from his lungs. “And if you refuse to cooperate I am not afraid of allowing Mycroft full access to your room for a drug sweep.”

This caught Sherlock’s attention. He opened his eyes, but just narrowly enough to shoot them both a rapturing glare. Letting out an indignant _huff_ , he climbed down from his precarious seat to just lean against the bed as to stand eye-to-eye with his friends. Greg grimaced at the sight of him up close. The younger Holmes looked like even more of a mess than John. It was unpleasantly obvious by smell alone that it had been at least a week since he had showered, and even though he was naturally skinny, it looked as if he hadn’t eaten in a week either.

“So what’s the problem?” Greg asked.

John rolled his eyes.

“A girl. He’s hiding in his room because of a girl.”

Greg felt his jaw go slack against his will. He and the rest of the RA’s just assumed that Sherlock didn’t fancy women, but bang goes that theory.

“I’m not hiding,” Sherlock grumbled. “I’m strategizing and predicting possible scenarios.”

“You’re scared because even though Molly fawns over you, you have no idea how to ask her out because of your own stupid arrogance and pride,” John snapped, his patience obviously worn thin by lack of sleep.

Molly Hooper? The mousy forensics major from the crime scene photography class the four of them took together? He had spoken to her a few times before, but not enough to really get to know her. She was sweet, that much was obvious, but also that she was hopelessly head over heels for Sherlock. On more than one occasion, she and Sherlock had been lab partners only for Molly to end up doing the whole project herself while the younger Holmes messed around with the equipment…

“You know she adores you?” Greg offered.

“Obviously,” Sherlock retorted sharply. “But that makes things… problematic.”

This made Greg roll his eyes almost as hard as it did for John.

“For Christ’s sake, mate, just ask her out for a pint! We all know she won’t say ‘no,’ and with a brain like hers who knows how long it will last before some other guy comes along. I swear to God, Sherlock, if you don’t ask her, I will.”

He only half meant it, but the comment made Sherlock jump, and both Greg and John laughed hysterically. Greg yawned and checked his watch. At least he could get a few hours of sleep before his next class.


	12. Take the Bloody Shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Q/Bond: Q and the Minions accidentally find actual PROOF that someone at MI6 is one of the Bad guys! Very Bad! Q must tell Bond that the next mission is to Kill M, his mentor/mother figure.... Does Bond take the shot? Or does Q do it first? So Bond does not have to?"

Q tightened his grip on the Walther, the smooth metal cold and heavy in his hands (which much to his embarrassment, were trembling). Bond would have scoffed if he could see the young man handling his personal weapon of choice. He must have looked ridiculous, Q thought to himself almost distractedly. His stance was horribly improper, his left eye kept flitting between open and shut, and he just could not get that sight to stay steady. James never did get around to giving him those shooting lessons. But still, it didn’t take a Double 0 to shoot a man from ten feet away. Actually, not a man. A woman.

            M’s face was the same as it has always been: cold, calculating, cynical. Even with a loaded and cocked pistol in line with her forehead, her eyes did not show even a hint of fear. However, he did detect an extra touch of something. Was it acceptance? Pride? Relief? It couldn’t be said.

            “Did you tell Bond?” she asked without rising from her chair, hands flat on top of her desk.

            “You’ll be dead long before I do,” he answered and tightened his finger around the trigger.

            She nodded curtly, satisfied with the answer.

            “I appreciate that. 007 has had enough loss in his lifetime.”

            Q’s hands jerked. He hadn’t been expecting this. He had expected a fight from an operative born and bred to go down in a hail of gunfire. He expected to get beaten to within an inch of his life. He expected needing to call 004 from down the hall to save him when the execution went horribly wrong. Hell, he even expected that she very well might kill him. He had not foreseen an old woman ready to accept what she had done.

            “Well, what are you waiting for?” M snapped, slowly leaning back in her chair and smoothing down her blazer. “We haven’t got all night. Take the bloody shot.”

            Q squeezed down and felt the whole weight of the recoil push the sidearm back so far that the muzzle nearly bashed in his nose. His ears rang with the shot’s echo as it bounced around the room, but then everything fell silent. Everything fell silent and he closed his eyes, afraid to see his good work. He had never killed anyone before. Murdering for Queen and Country was not part of his coding the way it was for field agents. M was a traitor, he knew that in the rational side of his brain. But his illogical emotional side was raw. He had taken a life that was not his own, not within his own reaches or dominion.

            He let out a deep breath and tried not to scream. The only solace was knowing that he alone would carry this burden. Not James.


	13. It Feels Too Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sifki prompt: In love with my costar AU.

“No, I can’t do this,” Sif suddenly burst, pushing Loki out of her arms and ripping the pins out of her hair. “I need a break.”

As she stormed off set toward her trailer the director called after her, begging her to come back and finish the scene while they still had the sun in their favor, but Loki just huffed indignantly. This was the third day in a row they had been working on this damn scene. It should have been easy, especially for a big time action star like her. She played the hero, he played the villain, and this was their stunning finale when she finally drove a knife through his heart and rescued her love interest through a hail of gunfire. The rest of filming had gone off without a hitch, but she couldn’t seem to get herself together. By now the whole crew was exhausted and more than a little fed up, but kept their patience. Sif escalation from stuntwoman extra to Oscar-winning actress had made her Hollywood’s darling, and no one wanted to be responsible for pissing her off too badly.

The director finally gave up trying to get Sif back and called for everyone to take an hour. Loki groaned and waved at the girl from the costume department to get him out of his heavy coat that was drenched in sweat and fake blood. Almost as soon as he was free, Thor walked up from where he had been behind the camera. He and Sif had gone to the same acting school and worked on several stunt teams together. Even though she went on to play leads while he became a fight director and stunt choreographer, they still for the most part remained a killer team producers coveted to hire together.

“She’s still got something eating at her?” Thor asked, throwing his brother a towel to dry his hair.

“Something she doesn’t feel obligated to tell her costars about apparently,” Loki grumbled, trying and failing not to be bitter. To him, trust was an essential part about working on any sort of intimate scene, and nothing was more intimate than death.

Thor shook his head.

“This isn’t like her at all. Have you tried talking to her in private about it?”

Loki scoffed.

“Are you insane? I don’t know about you, but I like the idea of keeping my job. The last thing my career needs is her telling all her adoring directors that I can’t handle working with her.”

The Odinson family had a big name in Hollywood. Their father had worked on thrillers and action sets long before they were born and there wasn’t a Shakespeare lead their mother couldn’t play flawlessly on screen or stage. The press was thrilled that both sons had chosen to continue the legacy, but it was just in the last few years that Loki had finally branched away from indie films and caved to his family’s wishes to seek out mainstream studio roles. His name could only protect him so much if Sif decided to speak against him.

“Trust me on this,” Thor assured, putting a hand on Loki’s shoulder. “You two have amazing chemistry on screen and she’s told me a hundred times that she thinks you’re amazing to work with. Just try talking to her alone.”

“Fine,” he finally caved. “But only because if I have to spit out one more mouthful of corn syrup I might go on a tirade through the props department.”

Getting off as much of his now disgusting costume as he could, Loki hesitantly approached Sif’s trailer but confidently knocked three times. A few minutes passed and he was beginning to wonder if she had actually gone home for the night, but just as he was about to walk away she cracked the door open just enough to peer out and show a single hazel eye before opening it completely. She had gone back into her street clothes and washed away the layers of makeup, and Loki felt his own layers of frustration wash away too. She looked tired, worn down, cracked to the brink of shattering. It wasn’t the face of a pouting diva, but an exhausted woman giving away so much of herself that she had almost nothing left.

“Oh, hello,” she said politely with a yawn, despite her demeanor. “Come in.”

Her trailer was in shambles. Clothes here, makeup there, plastic salad containers and protein bar wrappers strewn left and right, but she cleared off a space on the couch for him and gestured to sit. He still looked twice to make sure he wouldn’t accidently crush a pot of eyeshadow or a blood packet.

“I’m sorry about storming off today,” she apologized before he could even offer a proper greeting. “It was unprofessional and inconsiderate to you and the rest of the crew. I… I just can’t… I just can’t…”

She covered her mouth with her hand as if to hold back a sob, but her eyes remained dry. Loki found himself twisting his hands uncomfortably. He could talk his way in and out of anything. Charm men and women alike with only a few words, and break them down with ever fewer, but giving honest comfort was way beyond his boundaries. He rose out of his seat and gently took her free hand in his own, causing Sif to suddenly shoot her gaze upward.

“I’m your partner. You can tell me anything,” he finally pieced together, running his thumb over her palm.

She shook her head, biting her lip as fear rushed into her eyes.

“No, no, no, I can’t. It could ruin everything for both of us.”

He cocked one eyebrow curiously.

“ _Us_? Sif, I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to. Not even Thor, I swear it. Everything is going to be okay,” he assured, putting both his hands of her shoulders to emphasize his sincerity.

After what felt like hours of them both holding their breaths, she let out a sharp hiss and twisted her fingers up into her hair, looking like she might break at any moment.

“I can’t keep killing you over and over again. You’re too fucking good and it feels too fucking real and it hurts too fucking much even when I know we’re just pretending. I can’t handle it, I love you too much.”

The words spilled out of her mouth so quickly that neither of them realized what she had said right away. It took several seconds, but the full weight of it hit them both at the same time. Before Loki could even make full sense of what was happening, they leapt into a tangle of limbs and lips and moans. Sif’s legs were around his waist and he had her back pressed up against the wall. Her mouth found his neck while his fingers wrapped in her suffocating tresses that seemed to engulf them both. He was spouting some nonsense, something along the lines of ‘I love you,’ ‘I’ll never leave you,’ ‘I need you,’ ‘I trust you,’ but he couldn’t even hear himself over the pounding blood in his ears and every minute detail of Sif’s skin. Was someone knocking on her door? Was someone calling their names? Fuck, it could be God himself and he wouldn’t have put her down.

***

“Alright, people, that’s a wrap!” the director called, and everyone on set let out a collective sigh of relief before clapping and cheering. Nearly every person gathered around Sif and Loki, congratulating them on what they were calling their best performances yet.

“Absolutely brilliant!” the producer praised. “That kiss wasn’t in the script but that will definitely stay in the final cut. Great choice, you two. It has to have been at least a decade since I’ve seen a performance that convincing.”

They took the compliment gratefully and humbly, but Loki saw the grin Sif was biting her lip to hide and her eyes briefly met his for the briefest moment. It was only a matter of time before the tabloids found out, but for now they would enjoy their little secret.

“I look forward to seeing you two work together again soon!”


	14. One Orphan to Another

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I feel like I'm too late, but can I ask for a 00q prompt? Can you do one where Q can't swim and Bond drags him on a mission and he almost drowns? Bond gets angry but then softens and feels sorry for him or something and fluff ensues. So kind of a bit of angst and then a bit of fluff? I don't know! I understand if you can't as I know the last chance was a week ago now, but thought it was worth a try!"

“I’ll use small words so even you can understand, 007. No. Now get back to work.”

“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice,” Bond answered smugly. Very few things gave him more pleasure than poking a hole in Q’s god-complex. Every once in a while the little prat needed to be reminded that not everything in the world was at his whim, and James relished in being the one to do it.

“It’s true,” Moneypenny said, though with more sympathy for the Quartermaster than he appreciated. “M already filed the order. We need your computer skills on site. You’ll be departing for the South China Sea tomorrow morning with 007.”

“I don’t fly,” Q growled.

“Well, you’ll have to make an exception this time. Sorry, Q; M’s orders.”

While Eve gave the seething Quartermaster an apologetic pat on the shoulder before heading out of his office to get back to her own, Bond remained perched on the edge of Q’s desk, smirking at as the young man’s fingers curled into furious fists and his chest puffed out indignantly. After a few moments, he couldn’t help but chuckle out loud, earning him a murderous glare from Q.

“Get out before I make your life a living hell,” he barked.

“We’ll see. Starting tomorrow, you answer to me for once.”

Bond ducked out of the way just in time to avoid Q’s stapler and swiftly exited the room as he reached for the pencil holder, but made sure to keep laughing loudly enough for Q to hear.

***

By the time they landed in Taipei, James almost felt sorry for Q. Almost. The young man had spent nearly the entire flight clutching the armrests of his seat so tightly that his nails had scratched what would be permanent claw marks into the leather, all the while with his eyes squeezed shut and whole body trembling. He thought that maybe he would give it up after an hour or two, but no, he spent the whole 11 hours acting like he was about to be put to death by quartering (with the exception of the twenty minutes he spent vomiting in the restroom). No wonder M let him get away with not flying. If any of MI6’s enemies saw a Quartermaster in this sorry of shape just from being in an airplane, the international intelligence community would never take England seriously again. It was pathetic, really, and no matter how miserable Q looked, Bond couldn’t bring himself to feel too much sympathy. _Toughen up, kid. It’s all part of the job._ However, he also could not remember ever seeing anyone so relieved as Q did when they finally got off the plane, and that included men he had rescued right before they were supposed to be shot.

“Pull yourself together. We meet with our contact on the docks in half an hour.”

“I know, and I don’t take orders from you,” Q snapped, grabbing a water bottle out of his bag and taking several large gulps.

Bond rolled his eyes and grabbed the Quartermaster’s arm tightly, staring him down.

“You do now, so get used to the idea. I know how to operate in the field more than you ever will, and the second you stop believing that is the second you get us both killed, understand?”

Q glared back defiantly, despite still looking terribly sick.

“Then send me back to London because if my memory is correct, your past missions would have ended in half the time and half the casualties if you actually gave a damn about the orders I, or anyone else, gave you.”

Bond’s eyes narrowed and his grip constricted, causing the younger man to wince.

“Thinks the child who can’t even leave the country without embarrassing MI6. Your statistics and equations can’t account for what happens on the ground. Now get changed and grow up,” he snarled, finally letting go of his arm.

Q – snarky, dry, authoritarian, “done with your antics, 007” Q – suddenly seemed to drop his resistance to Bond’s intimidation, shrinking back ever so slightly in what might have looked on a lesser man like fear before slinking to a back compartment of the private jet to put on his suit. Something was not right, and not just the flight phobia. James waited patiently until Q’s emergence 10 minutes later, still looking unwell but at least slightly more professional. They walked to the docks in an uncomfortable silence though keeping perfect pace with one another. For a few moments Bond almost thought that maybe Q had come to grips with the situation and was ready to play along, and maybe, just maybe, things might go smoothly. However, the inkling went straight to hell when instead of their contact from Hong Kong waiting for them was a fully armed squadron of paramilitary agents.

“In the water!” Bond shouted when the gunfire began, running toward the edge of the dock, but Q dug in his heels.

“James, wait!”

But the bullets were whirring past their ears, mere centimeters from hitting their targets. It was into the water or into a casket, and he’d be damned if they died less than an hour into the mission. Growling in frustration, Bond tackled Q and threw him into the saltwater, easily overcoming the Quartermaster’s flailing limbs and screams of protest, pulling him under as he dove them both deep enough to evade their attackers’ lines of fire. The harbor waters were safe for now, but they only had a few minutes of sanctuary before undoubtedly being found. He started to swim toward the surface to make a plan with Q, but upon breaching for air looked around to find no sight of the young man. Fear knotted in Bond’s gut. He had just seen him! Where was he?! Then it hit him, and he suddenly realized why Q had been so resistant to jumping off the dock.

Q couldn’t swim.

Taking a deep breath, James dove back down into the oily water, frantically scanning through the murk. There was Q, eyes closed and mouth open, several yards deeper and still sinking. Cursing silently, Bond struggled downward until he finally could reach an arm around Q’s waist and kicked furiously until they both made it back to the surface just a few feet under the planks of the docks. Bond waited until he heard the aggressors get back into their boat before hauling Q’s limp body back onto the wharf. Shit, the kid was going to need CPR.

***

When Q opened his eyes, he found himself wrapped in a large towel, though still incredibly damp. He was back on the MI6 jet, he knew that, but his head was throbbing and his chest was aching too much to process anything else. There had been water. So much water. Too much water…

“Does M know you can’t swim?”

Q jumped, not having noticed that Bond was sitting across from him. He had changed into dry clothes, but his still wet hair sent streams of water down the front of his face.

“Yes,” he answered with a sputtering cough. “And he knows why I don’t fly.”

James leaned forward, propping his elbows on top of his thighs.

“Something is wrong with you, Q.”

He laughed bitterly, despite the pain it sent bouncing across his bruised ribs.

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Why can’t you swim and why don’t you fly?”

Q dropped his head into his arms, pretending to dry his hair with the towel but really just needed to hide the tears in his eyes from Bond. The last time he talked about it to anyone was five years earlier during his psych evaluation when applying for the Q-branch job. It was all in his file and that was where he had hoped it would stay. The last thing he needed was a trigger-happy field agent like Bond giving him grief about it.

“My past is none of your concern, 007,” he deadpanned.

“Bullshit. It almost got you killed and I’m the one who had to save you. You can either tell me yourself or I’ll call M and ask him.”

Q chewed on his bottom lip and clenched his fist. He didn’t want to relive it. Not again. There had been water. So much water. Too much water.

“Snap out of it, Q, come back!”

Bond was directly in front of him, hands on either side of his face forcing him to look into his bright blue eyes. Without thinking, Q’s fingers darted out and found a grip in James’ shirt. Everything was bouncing around in his head, pounding on the walls of his skull and clawing at his chest like it was clawing to get out. He couldn’t breathe!

“It… it was an accident. It… it wasn’t anyone’s fault,” he managed to sputter between short gasps for air. “The plane went into the water… mum and dad they tried… I tried… they said it wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

He tried to say more, but instead Bond just pulled him into his arms, silencing him with a light kiss on the forehead. The world was spinning and aching, but it somehow felt less wet. He wasn’t drowning anymore. He wasn’t back in the plane as it plummeted out of the sky. There was no storm driving them into the sea. There was no life vest crushing his neck as he tried to reach for his parents as they sunk to the bottom of the channel with the rest of the plane. There was only warmth and dryness and the comfort from one orphan to another. 


	15. So We Won't be PTA Parents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If your still taking Buckynat prompts how about a baby AU?

Bucky could count on one hand how many times he had seen Natasha honest-to-God scared. Twice in the Red Room and once since his readjustment to modern life, but that was just enough to have her fear reactions branded into his brain. She would find the most defendable corner possible and tuck her knees to her chest, as if to shield herself from everything in the world. Her forehead would start sweating and her whole body would tremble so much that she clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking too violently, all the while faintly licking her lips almost neurotically. Each time he had seen her break down like this, all hope had been lost. They were on occasions that she faced death she had not yet come to terms with, so needless to say he was terrified when came into her apartment at Avengers Headquarters to see her curled up on the floor between the wall and the couch.

He immediately dropped the bottle of wine he had brought for them to share, letting it shatter on the hardwood as he bolted to her side and wrapped his good arm around her shoulder. Still, despite the noise and the touch, she kept staring straight ahead as if she was lost in her own world and searching for something that might attack her at any moment.

“Natasha, what happened? Are you okay?” he asked quickly, instinctively reaching his metal arm around to touch the pistol in his back holster in case someone had attacked the apartment.

“No! No I’m not okay,” she finally answered after a few moments and tightly hugged her arms around his waist. “I’m pregnant.”

Bucky felt his jaw go slack. He sputtered and stammered to find something to say that would sum up all the emotions banging around in his brain, but the struggle to find words was nothing compared to the fight to hold back raw tears of joy. He had always wanted kids, back before the war started, but Hydra destroyed that dream when they stripped away his humanity and turned him into a monster. Even after Steve brought him back to a shadow of his former self, he was sure that nothing had changed. He wholeheartedly believed that he would never have the chance to be a father, but if what Natasha said was true…

“Nat… that’s-that’s wonderful!” he eventually managed. “That’s-that’s fantastic!”

He leaned in to kiss her, but she let out a furious yell and shoved both heels of her hands against his chest, sending him to the other side of the living room floor, tears streaming down her face.

“Are you really so naïve?! What kind of life could we possibly give a child?! How do we explain to a daughter why I could never watch one of her ballet recitals? How do we explain to a son why you will never be able to volunteer at his school? I can’t bring a human this life only to watch it be torn apart by our mistakes.”

“It doesn’t have to be like that,” Bucky assured, hesitantly reaching out to hold her hands even though they still shook in livid and terrified tremors. “We might never be able to give our child a normal life, but we can still give them a good one. Okay, we don’t become PTA parents, but so what? They will have an entire Avengers family to help take care of them and give anything we can’t. We can do this, Natasha, I promise.”

Natasha didn’t cry. He had seen her afraid before, yes, but Bucky had never seen her cry. Not until now, that is. She practically collapsed into his arms, sobbing with such a full weight that he could feel her chest rise and fall in bursts. His rapture gave way to anxiety, and he abandoned his elation for concern. He tried to remember a time that he ever felt more uncomfortable than he did now, but the only thing that came to mind was remembering Steve for the first time after his time as the Winter Soldier, and that was nothing short of torture.

“I’m so sorry, James, but I can’t,” she murmured between gasps for breath. “I know how much you want to be a father, but I can’t keep it. I can’t.”

Bucky felt all the blood drain from his face. _No, you have to!_ he wanted to scream. _We have a real chance! That’s our child! Ours!_ But he remained silent. Steve had been keeping him up on the times; how far healthcare for issues like this had come since when they were young and how science and the law had developed. He knew at the end of the day it was Natasha’s choice, but it still felt like a knife had been plunged into his chest and would not stop turning.

“Natalia, I am begging you,” he pleaded, holding her at arm’s length so he could look her in the eyes. Christ, she looked like she was falling apart. “Please, at least give us the chance to try. I’ll give up being an Avenger, I’ll spend every day taking care of them, I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure they grow up right. I’ll do everything so you don’t have to, but please just keep our child.”

He could feel his own tears now too. What a horrible sight the two of them must have been, he thought briefly. Had either of them ever been so weak before?

After what could not have been anything less than half an hour of nothing but quiet sobs, Natasha used her sleeve to dry her face and his.

“I’m willing to try, but only because I know you will make an amazing dad.”

***

It seemed as if every tiny face had plastered themselves to the windows on the left side of the bus to stare out in wonder. Even without their colorful suits, Avengers were Avengers, and practically every kid in the United States knew their New York heroes. It wasn’t every day Captain America, Iron Man, Thor, Hawkeye, Falcon, War Machine, Vision, Scarlet Witch, Bruce Banner, Maria Hill, Black Widow, and Bucky Barnes were all in one place in public, and the awe struck elementary schoolers were drinking it all in.

“Ready for your first day of big-kid school, Andrea?” Natasha asked, kneeling down to fix the bow in Andy’s hair.

Her daughter nodded confidently and Bucky beamed proudly. She had picked up her mother’s confidence, that’s for sure.

“You’re gonna be amazing, kiddo. Anyone messes with you, tell them your Uncle Iron Man will kick their ass,” Tony said, to which everyone shot him a glare and Steve elbowed him in the ribcage.

“Watch your language around our niece!” he scolded.

But Andy was giggling so uncontrollably that Bucky couldn’t be fazed less by Tony’s antics. Everyone knew she was going to have his mouth eventually anyway with how much time she loved spending with Legos and Dummy in the Stark Tower lab. Almost as much time as playing on the trapeze set Clint had built in the Avengers training facility for her while Natasha was debriefing new SHIELD agents. As Andy made her rounds hugging each of her aunts and uncles before headed out to the bus, Bucky slipped his hand into Natasha’s.

“You know, this means we’ll have the whole day to ourselves,” he whispered in her ear.

“Good,” she said back, waving to Andy as she became engulfed in an ocean of other kids no doubt bombarding her with questions about her family. “Because I want a boy this time.”


	16. Snow Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Don't you dare throw that snowba- god damnit!", Clintasha? Bonus points for the rest of the Avengers+Bucky

It was Tony and Steve’s idea to switch off who in the team was in charge of weekly training during the winter months. They all had specific skills that were great to have individually, but the best way to truly be unified was to share as many talents as possible. At first the idea made Natasha uncomfortable. Even if the Avengers was the closest thing she had to family, trusting them with her tactical secrets was a serious push. However, while it spooked her in theory, it proved to be quite fruitful in application. Tony taught basic mechanics on military vehicles, Steve taught French (though some phrases were antiquated by half a century), Bruce gave weaponized chemistry lessons, Clint honed everyone’s marksmanship, Thor shared Asgardian battle formations, Bucky taught basic Russian with her help, and Sam had everyone in training for their pilot’s licenses. Now it was Natasha’s turn, and that morning they all received text messages that training would begin at five a.m. in meadow of Central Park. She relished in hearing their groans as they dragged themselves miserably out of bed around four while she sat at the kitchen counter already fully dressed and sipping a hot Irish coffee.

“Romanoff, you do realize it’s still dark and snowing outside, right?” Tony grumbled, bundled up in what was probably the most expensive parka she had ever seen. “Dark. Snowing.”

“I feel like I’m back in Russia,” Bucky complained to Steve as he started piling hot pockets into the microwave.

“Good,” Natasha chimed, more than a little proud of herself. “Russia’s best military defense doesn’t come from their military at all; it’s the winters that kill armies. You boys need to learn how to fight in the snow.”

“Then can’t we just hand Siberia over to Loki or Hydra?” Clint asked with a groan before throwing himself down on the couch next to the dozing Sam and Bruce.

“The Black Widow is right,” Thor supported, coming out of his room wrapped in furs. “Sif and I hold similar trainings to prepare our warriors in case the need arises for a war with Jotunheim.”

Still continuing to bitch and moan, they finally made it to the quinjet (at Tony’s insistence over his refusal to be seen in a minivan) and over to Central Park. The sun was just barely beginning to shed some grey light across the park, but the snow was already half way up their calves and showed no sign of stopping its flurry any time soon. They trudged about one hundred yards away from the jet before Natasha stopped and signaled for them to circle up.

“Thor, Bucky, I want you two helping the others,” she instructed. “The most important part of fighting in deep snow is to not let yourself be distracted. It’s easy to get tripped up by the feeling of your feet being inhibited, but you can’t let it pull your attention away from your attackers. Now, try-“

She stopped short. Out of the corner of her eye she just barely saw Clint bending over as if to fix his boot, but she knew better. His hands were too far down to be adjusting the laces.

“Barton, so help me God, don’t you dare throw a-“

Before she could even finish the statement, a packed ball of snow and ice collided with the side of her head, exploding on impact and soaking her hair as the flakes melted on skin. She turned on her heels and without waiting scooped up two heaping handfuls of snow, squeezed them together, and hit him square in the chest.

“Let the glorious battle begin!” Thor shouted with a booming laugh, and suddenly all frozen hell broke loose as everyone dove in different directions to grab their own ammunition.

“Dibs on Cap’s team!” Sam declared, joining up with Steve and Bucky to form a triangle of flying freezing death. Natasha couldn’t help but notice Bucky’s mechanical arm was helping him make snowballs at least twice the rate of a normal human’s ability.

“Bruce, watch my back, buddy,” Tony called as he started gathering snow by the pile to build into a wall they could use for cover.

Thor seemed content to stand his own ground, and while Bucky was by far the fastest at making snowballs, the Asgardian was putting together globes the size of his head, catapulting them like rocks out of a trebuchet to take out Tony’s wall almost as fast as the billionaire could build it back up. Natasha groaned. This was supposed to be a valuable training exercise, and everything had descended into chaos because she was too immature to resist retaliating against Clint and his childish antics. Almost on cue, Hawkeye ran to her side, arms full of assembled white weapons.

“Looks like we’re together on this one,” he panted between breaths. “See, now this is just like Budapest all over again.”

“I agree. The mission was going perfectly until you did something to fuck it up,” she growled, shivering as streams of frigid water streamed down the back of her neck and under the collar of her shirt.

“Come on, lighten up, Widow,” he said, nudging her with his shoulder. “This is the most fun any of us have had in weeks. Now you can either sit here and keep glaring, or you can take that stick out of your ass and help me cream Cap into the ground.”

Natasha rolled her eyes, still a little annoyed, but she couldn’t help her own childish warmth starting to rise in her chest. The Red Room had done a lot to mess with her memories of how she had really spent her childhood, and though she did not know if it was real or not, she did remember running through the streets of Moscow with other children, throwing snow at each other to distract themselves from adult problems they were too young to fully understand. It had been… fun. Nice. She looked over at Bucky, the only other person on the team who understood what they had done to her, but he was too busy having a good time to even notice. Her usually strong and silent ex who had endured more than any of them was laughing, smiling, and living like a normal person for what was probably the first time in decades. If he could give in, so could she.

“Alright, let’s take those idiots out!”

***

By noon the Avengers were back in the kitchen of Stark Tower, all wrapped up in blankets and robes, drinking hot cocoa like they were ten years old again. It was Cap’s idea to take the rest of the day off as a “snow day” and finish out the afternoon with a couple hot pizzas and some good movies. Everyone agreed and began meandering into Tony’s home theater room, but Natasha hung back with Clint since he had agreed to wash the cocoa dishes while everyone else set up for the movie marathon.

“Why don’t you go help Sam with the pillow fort, Nat? I can take care of these myself,” he offered, gathering up the mugs and putting them in the sink filled with soapy water.

“I know you can,” she answered. “I just… I just wanted to say thank you. This is really what the team needed and I wouldn’t have seen it if you hadn’t pelted me with that snowball.”

Clint immediately abandoned the mugs and used the blanket wrapped around his shoulders to throw around hers and pull her into a warm embrace, planting a soft kiss on her forehead.

“I pelted you with that snowball because it’s what you really needed, Tasha. I know you care about this team, but it’s got you wound up tighter than I’ve ever seen you. Someone’s got to make sure you take care of yourself.”

“Thanks, Clint,” Natasha whispered, letting her head rest on his shoulder. “Do you think everyone else would notice if we skipped the movie?”


End file.
